I lived with rats and mice and wine and my blood crawled the walls in a world I couldn’t understand and still can’t. Rather than live their life, I starved; I ran inside my own mind and hid. I pulled down all the shades and stared at the ceiling. When I went out it was to a bar where I begged drinks, ran errands, was beaten in alleys by well-fed and secure men, by dull and comfortable men. Well, I won a few fights but only because I was crazy. I went for years without a women, I lived on peanut butter and stale bread and boiled potatoes. I was the food, the idiot. I wanted to write but the typer was always in hock. I gave it up and drank….
South of No North, Charles Bukowski